


The Semi-Waterproof Tent and Other Adventures

by OpalJade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Spooning, Tent Sex, Tent fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 19:42:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpalJade/pseuds/OpalJade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn't think it's very realistic that a night in a small semi-waterproof tent with his adrenaline-fueled flatmate is going to cure him of his bad mood. Sherlock doesn't think John has a good grasp of what realistic is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Semi-Waterproof Tent and Other Adventures

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trill/gifts).



> Written for Johnlockchallenge's Grab Bag Challenge on Tumblr for Trilliv's prompt: "I really don't think that's realistic, Sherlock."
> 
> Huge thanks to my fabulous beta and friend, Lariope. Your support means the world to me.
> 
> This is not Brit-picked... so sorry! I'll happily make any required changes. :D

There are hundreds of other places on this earth where John Watson would rather sleep tonight. His queen size bed with its duvet comforter and soft pillows in 221B tops the list. Or his chair in the living room would be nice too, especially if he were by himself in the flat and had a nice fire going in the fireplace...

Even the surgery, he supposes, would be more restful than this.

And by “this” he means being stuck deep in the middle of the forest with his borderline manic flatmate in a small semi-waterproof tent for the night (Christ--just how many times will he have to say “please, _don’t_ touch the walls, Sherlock!”?)

Technically, they are not inside the tent yet (Sherlock is still up in the spruce tree), but John can tell already what an epic ordeal the entire episode is going to be if they proceed with Sherlock’s plan. Seriously, he would rather sleep in a broken elevator--with rats--than spend the night with an adrenaline-fueled Sherlock in a tent. 

Maybe there is still time before the clouds burst and the rain starts to convince Sherlock that an impromptu camping sleepover is really not feasible. They don’t have the right kind of equipment for the conditions, and John doesn’t have right kind of patience. 

“Sherlock,” John shouts towards the oscillating branches high above. “I think it’s a better idea to return to the village as fast as possible, send your text from there, and we can always return once the--”

“Ha. Sent! And you claimed it wasn’t feasible. The police will be able to arrest the _correct_ culprit _tonight,_ ” Sherlock informs John from up above. John can tell he’s beaming even though he can’t see his face from below. 

John watches as Sherlock climbs down the evergreen. There are millions of needles falling around his head and a large glob of sticky sap lands on the shoulder of his jacket. He tries to wipe it off with his thumb, and now his fingers are all sticky.

“This is all your fault, you know,” says John once Sherlock lands gracefully at his feet. “I really don’t think the sleepover is necessary, Sherlock.”

“Interesting, John. Less than thirty minutes ago you were overawed with my plans and gawking at my deductions,” replies a distracted Sherlock as he shakes his head. A handful of needles falls to the ground. 

“Well, that was before you decided it would be a good idea to act on those plans _immediately_ \--despite the weather warnings, and the fact that you came totally unprepared for the wilderness.”

“I came prepared. I brought you, you brought the gear. Simple.”

“Sherlock, not only is the gear outdated, it’s meant for just one person!”

“Well, I guess you’ll be more organized next time,” says his flatmate.

They’re eight minutes into their little camping adventure and John wants to kill him already.

“Oh, relax, John. We’ll be fine. Let me set up the tent. I know exactly where so it doesn’t get wet--and a sleepover might just be the thing for your foul mood.”

John really needs to remind himself how devastated he was when his best friend was artificially dead for a few years.

As if, _as if,_ Sherlock knows anything about outdoor survival. For God’s sake, he’s wearing a Goddamn suit in the middle of the wilderness, and his feet are already wet from distractedly emptying his water canteen on the ground ( _This tastes foul, John_ ). So, yeah, he’s supposed to trust Sherlock to keep them dry? They’ll be drenched before Sherlock can even figure out how to set up a tent. Oh, and _that’s_ going to cure him of his foul mood. 

“I see that you have doubts. Don’t worry, I know how to make a tarp out of the vegetation.”

Tarps are made up of plastic, that’s what makes them impermeable--not porous, organic material thinks John. 

“I really don’t think that’s realistic, Sherlock,” says John through clenched teeth.

“Mmm, you know, John, this is the third time you’ve said that to me since this case started five days ago, and yet here we are... a solved murder by the “unrealistic” examination of pollen, and a sent text from the “unrealistic” method of climbing a tall tree. I don’t think you have a good grasp of the word realistic.”

“Oh, my grasp is just fine, Sherlock! I can guarantee you that it’s _not realistic_ that spending the night getting drenched while you are bouncing off the walls like a pinball is going to improve my mood.”

“You clearly enjoy being proven wrong, John.”

John takes a deep breath and pushes aside the urge to strangle Sherlock. 

But it’s too late anyway to head back now--he’s going to have to let Sherlock win this round and set up the damn tent before it rains.

But still.

John has limits. Sherlock needs to know that there are consequences to his impulsivity.

“You didn’t even know I had borrowed gear when you took off amongst the trees like a little tornado. You can stay in the tent, Sherlock, but I’m not sharing any of the sleeping equipment with you as a lesson.”

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. “I’m not planning on sleeping anyway. And if anyone needs a lesson of any kind, it’s you, John; Tornados form over valleys and plains--it is very unlikely that there would ever be a touchdown in the forest. “

John hits Sherlock in the arm before he can stop himself. He is so done with his flatmate for the rest of the day. Except he has nowhere else to go, does he?

 

***

 

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock (with John’s help--ha!) has finished setting up the tent. They’ve selected a spot under a large oak, and Sherlock thinks the few evergreen branches he set on the moss will prevent the floor of the tent from getting wet. ( _They are hydrophobic due to their natural oils, John_ ). 

John doesn’t know what he wants more--for Sherlock to be proven right or wrong. 

Darkness comes early in mid-September, and before they know it, it’s completely dark in the tent. John hears the rain outside picking up tempo. Sherlock is sitting cross-legged on his side of the tent, his eyes are closed, and he seems to be meditating. It’s tolerable, John thinks. He’d assumed Sherlock would bounce off the walls like a heated popcorn kernel, but instead he has gone off inside his head, probably to relive the high his fast paced deductions provided earlier today. 

There’s not much to do, so John figures he might as well start writing up the case while it is still fresh in his mind. He lights the small lamp and sets it on the flat ground between him and Sherlock.

“Did you think to bring any food? I don’t think I’ve eaten in a few days, and I believe I’m hungry.” 

John sighs. Sherlock’s tone is not helping his mood any. 

“Yes, there are a few of those energy bars, bananas, apples and nuts.”

“Hmm. Not the best selection. And the borrowed equipment leaves something to be desired. I’m a little disappointed, John.”

John knows what Sherlock is doing. He wants John to play along--to engage in clever repartee and have a battle of wits of some sort. But John is just not in the mood to humor him tonight. 

“Stop being such an arrogant prick,” he says exasperated. “You know sometimes I really regret going on cases with you. I’m not sure it’s always worth it.”

Sherlock’s eyes are now wide and full of hurt. There is also the beginning of a pout pushing his lip down slightly. Amazing how, in the blink of an eye, Sherlock can transition from complete prat to a kicked puppy.

“Fine,” says Sherlock and grabs a bar and eats it with his back to John.

He’s not going to respond to this. Perhaps his words were harsher than he meant them to be, but still, he feels justified; Sherlock took him for granted. 

John reaches in his backpack and pulls out a pair of sweatpants and dry socks. He changes quickly in his small half of the tent. John removes his jeans, rolls them tightly inside his jacket and places the clothing back in the backpack. That will do as a pillow. He places his sleeping bag on top of the small camping pad and crawls in. He extinguishes the lamp, places his torch on the ground, and manages not to look at Sherlock lying there in his more than likely wet coat. 

Sherlock’s comfort is not his problem. 

 

****

 

Approximately thirty minutes go by, and John thinks he will be able to go to sleep after all. 

“John?”

Or not.

“I know you’re not sleeping.”

John ignores Sherlock. He’s exhausted, and in all likelihood if he responds to Sherlock, they will argue again. There is nowhere for either one of them to go cool off. Nothing good can come out of answering--certainly not sleep.

“John!”

John opens his eyes. Sherlock is not going to give up, is he? He grabs the torch and turns it on, pointing it at the roof of the tent. He turns and faces Sherlock. His eyes are wide pleading things.

“Are you going to be angry at me all night, John? Because your breath catches slightly on the exhale when you’re mad, and I can’t think.”

John hates himself for wanting to respond reassuringly to Sherlock’s needy voice. It’s a well known fact that Sherlock doesn’t like John to be angry with him (though one would think a genius like Sherlock would make the link between his actions and that very fact.) 

He’s not mad at Sherlock--well, not anymore, at least--but there’s still something bellow the surface bothering John. He supposes an apology would do the trick to get rid of it. It would be nice if Sherlock acknowledged that this uncomfortable situation--the old tent, the dampness, the crowded space--could’ve been easily avoided if he’d listened to John a bit more (a lot more). Sherlock knew (of course, he knew!) that John hadn’t slept the night before, how utterly tired he was, and how he still came along on the case. (In the name of fairness, John knows he could’ve refused, could’ve said _No, Sherlock,_ but truth be told, John has a bit of a hard time letting Sherlock out of his sight for too long.) But still, they could’ve easily gone back to the village. The case had been solved; there was no pressing need to gather more evidence--to piece it all together _tonight._ There was no need to text D.I. Thompson immediately. No clock timing how long it took Sherlock to figure things out. But, as per usual, Sherlock’s need to complete the puzzle, to snap that final piece into place, and hold up the final completed image for everyone (but mostly John) to see and prove just how brilliant he is--trumps John’s needs every single time. 

“Get some sleep, Sherlock,” John says tiredly. He should really try to explain that to Sherlock tomorrow, though. 

 

****

 

It takes approximately eighteen minutes before Sherlock is in motion again. John feels him shifting--disturbing the fragile semi-sleep state John was trying to convert into full-sleep. He wishes--not for the first time since he’s known Sherlock--that there was on/off switch on his flatmate. It would be so much simpler that way.

Finally, after much shifting, Sherlock sits up and wraps his arms around his legs. His chin is resting on his knees.

“I’m sorry, John. We should’ve headed straight back to the village,” concedes Sherlock. “I should’ve foreseen that you wouldn’t procure us better equipment.”

“That apology would’ve worked so much better had you not added that last sentence; now shut up and make the best of it,” says John. His eyes are still closed but that doesn’t prevent him from seeing the pout forming on Sherlock’s lips. 

For some reason, John smiles at the image in the dark. 

 

**** 

 

John jolts awake to the small earthquake Sherlock is creating inside the tent. “Sherlock, what are you doing?” It sounds like Sherlock is performing some kind of acrobatics. 

John reaches for the torch tucked inside his sleeping bag and turns it on. The soft glow stops Sherlock mid-action. Apparently, Sherlock’s attempting to undress in the very small space allotted to him on his half of the tent. His trousers are off, and he’s leaning back on his heels in the process of removing his suit jacket. His legs are dotted with goosebumps.

“I’m making myself comfortable, John. I don’t usually sleep in a suit,” replies Sherlock, casting his eyes down at the ground.

“You’re going to be cold,” says John. 

“Negative. I’ll just put my coat over myself.”

John sighs inwardly. Why is it that teaching Sherlock a lesson always ends up costing him? He won’t be able to rest knowing his flatmate is lying there _pretending_ he’s not shivering. John looks at his watch; it’s almost 23h00. He can salvage the night if they share the sleeping bag.

John knows that what he’s about to propose is insane, but right now, he just really wants to sleep, and this seems to be the most efficient way of reaching that goal.

“Alright,” John says as he unzips his sleeping bag. “You’re going to do as I tell you without any arguments, and this way was I can still get a full six hours of sleep without worrying about you getting hypothermia.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, and John holds out a finger to him. “Not. A. Word.”

John shifts the small rectangular pad to the centre of the tent and pats it. “The only way we can both fit on this is if you spoon me.”

“Spoon you?” asks Sherlock, looking completely puzzled. John knows he has ordered Sherlock to keep quiet, but he finds it hard to look sternly at Sherlock when he’s looking all lost and confused. John is pretty sure he’s the only one who gets to see that expression on Sherlock’s face. 

Of course, Sherlock has no idea what spooning is, does he? They’ve never actually talked about it openly since their first dinner at Angelo’s years ago, but John can easily deduce that Sherlock has no experience with affairs of the heart and their related intimacies. Okay, fine; he can explain spooning to Sherlock. Who knows, it might even come in useful in a case one of these days. 

“Spooning is a sleeping position involving two individuals. It’s meant to resemble a spoon--spoons in a drawer, actually--where one person fits into the cavity formed by the other person. So basically, just lie on your side and tuck in your legs in a bit as if you’re having a sulk on our sofa at home. I’ll lie down on my side and fit my back into the groove your body makes,” explains John. He’s quite impressed that he’s been able to present it so clinically. “It’s a quite efficient use of space,” he adds as if that’s the reason why couples spoon. 

Sherlock is still looking at him with wide eyes. The warm glow of the torch outlines Sherlock’s silhouette against the fabric of the tent all the way into its curved dome. John thinks Sherlock--with his angelic grey eyes and halo of dark curls--looks like one of those cherubs painted on cathedral ceilings. 

That is until he opens his mouth and speaks.

“Fascinating. Thank you for that vague description. And here I thought you were suggesting the very intimate position couples engage in after sexual intercourse. Now, calling it a spoon is actually a misnomer, unless people mean that their heads form the cavity and--”

“Oh, shut up, Sherlock!” says John half embarrassed and half intrigued. How does Sherlock even know about spooning? “You bloody well know I just want to sleep. Now are you going to lie down or freeze in your corner wearing just your expensive shirt?”

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, grabs his coat, and tosses it precisely over the small mattress pad and proceeds to topple down on it gracefully. He folds himself into sulking position and lifts an eyebrow towards John as if to say “my part is done”.

Perhaps John’s plan is somewhat flawed, because the whole thing--snuggling up to Sherlock on top of his precious coat--seems rather too intimate all of a sudden. 

John swallows and reminds himself that this is all in the name of sleep and efficiency. 

_Right, then._

John reaches for the backpack-turned-into-a-pillow and centers it so Sherlock can rest his head there too. He tries to look casual as he lies down slowly on the silky fabric lining the inside of Sherlock’s coat. He turns his back to Sherlock, puts his head down on the pillow, and whispers a quiet, “Well, good night, then.” He pulls the sleeping bag over them both.

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock breathes into his nape.

John assumes that it’s the cool autumn air that triggers the fine hair at the back of his neck to stand on end. However he can’t imagine why that would also cause an hummingbird-like flutter low in his gut.

 

****

 

John is just on the brink of falling asleep. Outside, the rain is falling steadily against the canvas of the tent, and John is filled with a cozy feeling of well being just by the mere fact that they are inside, warm, dry, _and comfortable._ John silently tells himself that _his_ plan was by far the best one today. Yes--his spooning idea was quite brilliant, thank you very much. 

John prefers sleeping on his side, and the added thickness of Sherlock’s coat has created extra cushioning under his hipbone. Also, the silky lining smells nicer than the musty pad underneath. That must be why John can’t seem to be able to stop himself from burying his nose in the fabric.

There’s only one glitch. John can tell Sherlock doesn’t know what to do with the arm he’s not lying on. At home, Sherlock likes to hug a pillow (or the union jack cushion if he’s fallen asleep on the sofa), so John reaches back and pulls Sherlock’s arm down loosely over their bodies. There, Sherlock should be content now. 

Odd; he and Sherlock fit perfectly together, like they’re from a set of matched moulds. In his head, John awards himself _plan of the week._

 

****

 

John is not quite yet asleep when Sherlock inquires, “John, I’m your friend, am I not?”

Ah. Of course. Sherlock needs that final reassurance that John is no longer upset with him. 

“Of course you’re my friend, you idiot!” says John and kicks Sherlock’s leg reassuringly with the back of his heel to emphasize the camaraderie. 

Silence settles once again inside the tent. John thinks it’s nice that he and Sherlock have this type of special bond. In fact, John reflects, his friendship with Sherlock is probably stronger than ever after surviving the deception of the fake death two years ago. 

It’s great that he can call Sherlock an idiot again--especially when no one else ever gets to. It’s also nice that he gets to tease Sherlock about the gaps in his knowledge. Or to punch him on the arm whenever he’s being a prat (No one else gets to do that either!) Actually, Sherlock doesn’t let anyone else even _touch_ him, not even a friendly pat on the shoulder. John kind of knows the reason why he gets to do these things and others don’t. It’s because Sherlock--

_belongs to me..._

The revelation springs out of his subconscious and surprises John. 

_Sherlock is mine_

This is ridiculous. They’re not even a couple. And John knows you can’t _own_ people, _and_ he’s not even the possessive type-- _yet_...

Yet, if he imagines--even for just one second-- _anyone_ else teasing, protecting, teaching, or touching Sherlock, his whole being protests loudly and boldly. **No, no, _no_! Get your _own_ genius, this one _is mine!_**

He feels like the sheer power of this epiphany swirling inside--a tornado of human emotions. 

_Christ!_

The clarity is overwhelming. Somehow, somewhere, at some point, what he feels for Sherlock has blossomed--mutated is probably more apt--into more. 

John is having a bit of a panic attack. It’s all a bit much having to acknowledge that you’re more than likely head over heels in love with your best friend while lying intimately in the groove of said friend’s crotch. Spooning was a bad plan. John strips himself of his earlier imaginary award. 

John can’t stay like this, his back to Sherlock’s chest, his ass to Sherlock’s crotch, with their thighs touching. Lord God, what was he thinking? It’s too much--he needs some space between them. He can’t breathe. He can’t swallow, either.

John feels Sherlock move behind him, and the torch light is back on. “Are you alright?” asks Sherlock.

John flips over quickly and finds himself face to face with Sherlock on the make-do pillow.

John blinks his eyes twice and answers, “I don’t know.” 

Sherlock tilts his head a bit so that he’s gazing into John’s face. They stay like this for what seems like an eternity. Finally, Sherlock asks, “Did you just piece it together?” 

“Yeah.” John’s not even sure if they’re talking about the same thing. But from the way Sherlock is looking at him, probably. He feels warm all over as he adjusts to the shift. He feels calmer now. Content. Enthralled. Mesmerized. 

Their eyes are connected, and the silent communication between them shimmers brighter, clearer, and louder than any written or spoken word.

_I love you, you know_

_Me too Sherlock, so much_

_Are we doing this?_

_Do you even want to?_

_Yes, you?_

John nods his head.

Without hesitation Sherlock leans in and presses his inexperienced mouth to John’s. A small chill travels down John’s back. It is their only point of contact, yet it seems so potent.

They are joined like a wishbone, with their mouths softly engaged while their silent conversation continues. 

_Like this?_

_A bit more_

_Show me, then_

John parts Sherlock’s lips with his tongue and feels the tip of Sherlock’s own tongue come out carefully to meet his. John shivers and believes this is the most sensual thing he has ever experienced. It seems excessive, but John knows that this is deeper than it appears on the surface. On the outside, the kiss is a sweet, simple looking gesture, but on the inside, it warms and spreads and dissolves all remaining boundaries between the two friends. 

It seems like time is suspended. It is the sound of the rain as it continues to shower the trees and the forest floor that indicates that there is no actual pause. John thinks there is no place he would rather be than right here with Sherlock with their heads on the same pillow while sharing slow, drugging kisses in a semi-waterproof tent. 

It is Sherlock who eventually breaks off the never-ending kiss. “You can touch me, you know,” he says, his breath uneven, “Anywhere.” 

Sherlock is striking, lying there facing John with his eyes wide his face slightly flushed. John believes that Sherlock’s odd mixture of innocence and confidence will be his undoing. 

He pulls Sherlock flush against his chest. “I will,” he whispers in his ear. “Everywhere.”

And he does.

He slides his hand underneath Sherlock’s shirt and caresses the skin there. It feels, obviously, very different than what he's used to, but John isn’t thinking about this in terms of gender, just in terms of Sherlock. He wants so much for him. So much. 

Sherlock squirms once John reaches his waist. “Not _there,_ ” he orders. It seems Sherlock is ticklish. John is delighted to have that little weapon at his disposal for future use.

“Not likely,” Sherlock deduces John's thoughts and John grins because he knows how much fun he's going to have just trying.

John continues his exploration, touching Sherlock’s back and shoulders. He has never touched a man intimately before, and he is surprised to discover that he likes to feel the taut muscles very much. He is just over forty years old, and it’s quite nice to be discovering a new kink at this point in time--especially considering his new circumstances. 

He wonders if he’ll like the other major differences as much. 

John dives in and presses his palm over the expensive material of Sherlock’s pants. Sherlock is hard in there, and John enjoys making him whimper by rubbing his hand teasingly over the bulge. He knows what _that_ feels like. 

“John,” exhales Sherlock and pulls John’s hand back up so his fingertips lie just underneath the elastic of Sherlock’s pants. 

It’s clear what Sherlock is asking for.

John kisses Sherlock deeply as he pushes the rest of his hand inside Sherlock’s pants and curls his fingers around Sherlock’s erection. He strokes the satiny-soft skin lightly and is mesmerized by how it seems to throb in his hand. Christ, he’s never noticed that in himself before. Curious, he moves his hand further down and cups Sherlock’s balls. They are warm and heavy in his palm. _Jesus!_ So familiar yet so different. Intrigued, he tries _his_ favourite thing, and massages the soft skin just below with the pad of his thumb. 

Sherlock moans loudly in his mouth.

A thrill washes over John at the little sounds Sherlock is making. He should probably get these pants off Sherlock so he can have more room. His hands move back up and cup Sherlock’s face. He has never seen his friend look so... so stunning and undone. 

“God, Sherlock,” he says, first kissing his cheekbone and then his lips.

Sherlock reaches down under the sleeping bag and removes his own pants. Then he hooks his thumbs under both the elastic of John’s sweatpants and pants and pulls them both down past John’s hips.

Sherlock slides one of his long legs between them, and his foot pushes down the rest of the clothing. Their bodies are tangled together, and their faces almost nose-to-nose. John caresses down Sherlock’s upper thigh and wraps his hand around Sherlock’s stiff cock again, rubbing his thumb over the head. He wishes it weren’t so chilly so he could pull back the sleeping bag to see what that looks like. Sherlock writhes and whimpers beneath him.

“You like that, eh?” John whispers.

“Ob--” his breath catches, “--viously,” he manages to finish as John teases him with his thumb again.

John laughs softly.

Then Sherlock’s fingers wrap around John’s erection, and he finds himself moaning as the heat builds up and buzzes in his groin. 

Sherlock touches him with that same blend of vulnerability and confident determination that John finds so intoxicating.

John loses all coherent thoughts and pretty soon everything--the slide of hands against silky cock, the warmth of breath, the kisses upon kisses--spirals out of control until it all blurs and washes over him in a wave of pleasure. 

Sherlock lets go and buries his face in the crook of John’s neck, and John feels such overwhelming love and affection for his genius as Sherlock falls apart in his arms, totally undone. 

 

****

 

It doesn’t take very long for Sherlock to re-emerge as himself. 

“Admit I was right.”

“You were right,” John humors him. “About what?”

“You not knowing the meaning of the word realistic,” Sherlock says smugly. “I told you a night in a tent would cure you of your foul mood.”

John rolls his eyes and then kisses Sherlock, hard and possessive. “Go to sleep, Sherlock.” John turns his back to Sherlock, and Sherlock knows what to do. He wraps his arms tightly around John’s waist, and rests his forehead in John’s hair, and his lips settle on John’s neck, and he finally falls asleep.

 

****


End file.
